


A Series of Incredibly Fortunate Events

by gishmi1ish



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fantasizing, Flirting, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Slow Build, Spoilers, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome, Unrequited Love, Voyeurism, Work In Progress, everyone plotting to seduce harry for his own good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6796663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gishmi1ish/pseuds/gishmi1ish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you read a fic so good that you just need it to have a sequel, even if you have to write it yourself. This is that sequel. </p><p>It's meant to be a direct continuation from This is The Best Day Ever, so read that first if you haven't. And all of the Dresden Files books, too, of course.</p><p>Molly is on a mission to get Harry, and, if possible, Marcone, into as many compromising positions as she can manage. Thomas gives helpful advice from the sidelines.</p><p>Only... Less immediately-smutty than that sounds, I guess. (But OMG, somebody please write that.)</p><p>Still in its infancy, but I'm hoping that posting what I've got so far will force me to either keep at it, or inspire someone else to take up the torch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Molly gets little to no sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Is The Best Day Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527113) by [Daena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daena/pseuds/Daena). 



What. The fuck. What. The fuck.

  
Molly Carpenter --20, Sagittarius, apprentice wizard-- staggered to a stop 5 blocks from the Dresden mancave. She leaned against a streetlight heart pounding as though she’d been running from an ogre of, shall we say, modest proportions and below-average orneriness. She sent a quick prayer heavenwards: _dear god, I'm sorry i ever doubted_. For if ever there was proof of benevolence above, surely this must be it. Her very _teeth_ felt on fire with the shock of delight. Of all the amazing things! She wrapped an arm around the lamppost and closed her eyes, awash with a delirium of images, out of which her favorites would cycle to the top again and again. Harry's gorgeous electric lankiness, better than she could've ever imagined-- those knobbly vulnerable hipbones, and a soft-eyed smoulder she'd never seen on him before. Jeez, even just remembering that look made her dizzy with longing. And then-- and _then_!-- motherfucking Mr. Badass himself, Johnny Marcone, with his solid, sexy-older-man thing going on -- _meee-ow_!-- and hung like a-- like a firetruck. Or whatever. HUNG! She was amazed her eyes hadn't fallen right out of her head when he took that beauty out.

  
Mind you, she’d always had a healthy --and, key word, _objective_ \-- appreciation for his obvious badboy appeal (because, really, once you'd seen him handle a knife, the thought experiment pretty much just wrote itself)-- but idle crushing and active drooling were two entirely different states of being.  
And, lest anyone think her shallow, it wasn't even just how nice he looked naked, either. It was the sounds he made, the way he fucked; the way he took what he wanted, so shameless and straightforward...  
Everything she wished she could be.

 

It was dusk when she got home, flushed and out of breath. Something delicious-smelling was happening in the kitchen. She eyed the stairs, wondering if she had time to sneak up to her bedroom for some quiet self-abuse, but her stomach made a wookie-ish noise of protest.

“ _Fine_ ,” she muttered, and helped set the table. Those of her family who noticed her distracted air at dinner that night considered it a fair price to pay for her also being much better-tempered than normal, and said nothing.

She had wanted him for so long. She'd figured it was just a classic hot-for-teacher kinda thing, and that eventually she'd grow out of it.  
Someday.  
Right?  
But so far, it seemed to be one of those long, slow, crippling, unshakeable conditions that just got worse and worse, like Parkinson's, or MS, or Anne McCaffery novels.

 _if only he weren’t such a smartass,_ she reflected ruefully, _if only he were boring. if only you didn't have a weakness for nerdy cat-batchelors. if only his don’t-fuck-with-me voice didn't make you want to lay yourself ass-upwards across his lap... fuck!_  
She brushed her teeth with vicious speed and took herself straight to bed.

Sometimes... Sometimes you just have to touch yourself, even if it doesn't actually make you feel any better. She was rough with herself under the covers, imagining --as she had more than few times before-- his huge hands. She gritted her teeth. _No more settling for fantasies._ If Mr. Marcone, whom he loathed, could talk him into bed, then clearly she'd just given up too easy. She cupped her breasts, hooked each nipple ring with a finger and gave it a sweet, vicious shake. She wasn't a frightened little girl anymore, dammit, she was a reasonably attractive young woman with --let’s be honest-- truly excellent tits. She dug her fingers hard into the soft flesh, and bit back the words _I will have you, Harry_ , before they could get out into the world and wreak any havoc. She knew all she wanted to know about careless manifestations of intent.  
But, privately, she swore to herself that she would.


	2. In which Dresden gets a clue-- ha! Just kidding folks, we don't have the budget for that kinda special effects.

To say that things were awkward between Molly and I after the Marcone Incident (the naming of which was about as far as I’d dared think about it), would be an understatement of the most insupportable kind. Things were not just awkward. They were a multi-layered bean dip of awkward.

Don't get me wrong, I’m all for a good bean dip under the right circumstances-- but there's a time and a place. And trying to carry on lessons when you keep stumbling across pockets of cheesiness or spiciness or… slipperiness… look, it's not easy, is all I'm saying.

  
Arguably the worst of all, however, was the layer of pure, guilty pleasure. If you’re still following along with the metaphor (which, to be honest, I'm already regretting), this would be the sour cream layer: rich, tempting, and a bane to one's better judgement. I wasn’t even 100 percent solid on what I felt the most guilty about-- the fact that I wanted Marcone again, or the fact that when Molly wasn’t eying me, I was watching her, thinking unconscionable thoughts. Thoughts like _she’s already seen you naked, and you’ve already seen her naked-- so what’s the harm?_ Let me tell you, kids, sex does terrible things to the human brain. It makes you think all sorts of things are a good idea; has you halfway around the orgy buffet before common sense can get its hightops laced.

  
As bad as things were with the all-blushing-all-the-time duo, it was nothing compared to what happened when Thomas came by and caught us at it. The blushing, I mean. Not-- _at_ it, at it. Yeesh. I managed to find an errand for her across town so that I could sit down with him at the kitchen counter and not have to pretend I couldn't see his urgent eyebrow semaphores every time she turned her back.

  
He pounced before the sound of her footsteps on the steps had faded, the look on his face as gossip-hungry as a 12-year-old girl.

  
“Did you-- what _happened_ Harry? Did she finally wear you down and make you see the error of your puritanical ways?” I grumbled into a bottle of McAnally’s dark-- the occasion had seemed to warrant one, for all that it wasn't yet noon.

  
“Nothing happened--” I told him, but he held up a hand like a traffic cop. Of course, because it was Thomas, he made for the kind of traffic cop you find inside a giant cake at a bachelorette party, but it shut me up all the same.

  
“My spidey senses say… you're full of shit.” I blushed all over again-- I did _not_ want to explain what had happened with Marcone. Even though, of all people, Thomas was probably the least likely to judge me for it, he was also the most likely to tease me about it mercilessly for the next few centuries of my life. Just then, that sounded like the more unendurable of the two evils.

  
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “She, ah, caught me-- _spied_ on me, really, more like…” Thomas’s eyebrows bounced approvingly.

  
“Good for her,” he said. I shot him a _pass ye no further_ look, which he blithely sauntered by. "Come on, Harry-- you know you’re not doing her any favors by holding out on her.” He shook his head and took a swig of his own beer. “Girl’s got it _bad_.” I trusted his assessment on that front, at least, but that just made things worse.

  
“Look, it’s not like I don't know she’s not a kid anymore. It’s not even like I’m so much of a dinosaur that I think young women her age shouldn’t have, you know--”

  
“Sex?” he said innocently. I huffed.

  
“--fulfilling relationships of a possibly physical nature.” I glared at him. “I just don’t necessarily think they should be having them with someone old enough to be their father!” He looked up thoughtfully and counted on his fingers.

  
“You're not _quite_ old enough to be her father…” I gritted my teeth.

  
“I'm _friends_ with her father, that's close enough. It's just-- it's not right. Right?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed despairingly.

  
“I appreciate your attempt to sound all modern and sex-positive, but you do realize that your argument is concerned more with the comfort of the father and his friend than with that of the lady in question?” I shook my head.

  
“There's some things you just don’t _do_ \--” I said, sounding petulant even to my own ears. He wasn’t having it.

“No, Harry, there are some things _you_ just don’t do. Like cut yourself some slack every once a decade. Or, I don’t know, trust that you’re basically a decent guy and the world isn’t _actually_ going to hell in a handbasket if you allow yourself to be happy sometimes.” I didn’t look at him, didn’t argue. He was quiet a moment, and then said, “Not that I'm in the best position to give advice. My experience with love is that it's neither convenient nor painless. I don’t just mean Justine-- I mean you, too. You’re a big pain in the ass, you know that, right?”

“Heh. That’s what _he_ said,” I quipped, before I could help myself. He rolled his eyes. “I get what you’re saying,” I said hastily.

“You sure? Because your neanderskull isn’t known for its permeability--” I kicked his stool.

“You’re saying love’s a pain, but the alternative is worse-- yadda yadda yadda. I get it.” I pushed my beer bottle around, suddenly queasy.

  
“So... what are you gonna do?” he asked finally. I winced.

  
“Talk to her, I guess.” He sighed.

  
“You sound like you’re going to the guillotine, Harry, jeez. Look, I know you think my moral fiber is a bit… threadbare. But it's not just _your_ best interests I'm looking out for here. I think Molly deserves a stand-up guy, and you're the most stand-up guy I know.” He shook his head. “It's not like I'm looking for her to get hurt or exploited or anything like that. You know that, right?” He was, for a moment, totally without snark, and I was caught off guard.

  
“Yeah--” I said awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess I know that.” It hadn’t occurred to me, though, and I felt like an asshole. Thomas might be on the completely shameless end of the sexual spectrum, but he wasn’t-- he wasn’t _Bob_. “I just-- I just keep feeling like doing the right thing gets harder and harder. I keep making little compromises here and there, and I worry that before I know it--” my lungs refused suddenly to let me finish. Thomas sighed, a real one this time.

“Yeah,” he said. we were silent a bit. Then he shook himself and took a decisive pull on his beer.

  
“There's good guys and good guys. Keeping her around just so you can feel righteous about resisting the temptation-- that's not the kind of good guy you want to be.” I scowled. When he put it like that, it sounded pretty ugly.

  
“Ok, ok-- I _said_ I’d talk to her.”

  
“Atta boy. Now…” the hairs on the back of my neck stood up at his suddenly casual drawl. “What's this ‘that’s what _he_ said’ business?” I got up to stick my unfinished beer in the icebox for later. Hiding my burning face had nothing --I repeat _nothing_ \-- to do with it. 

  
“Just something the Alphas say sometimes. Doesn't mean anything. You know. Kids these days.”

  
“Uh-huh,” he said, eyes narrowing. I was too busy trying to look innocent to realize what he was up to until it was too late-- he swiped his bare fingers across the inside of my wrist in a swift, intimate, but weirdly clinical gesture, almost like a butler checking a windowsill for dust. His fingertips instantly erupted in blisters. “Mmm- _hmmm_ ,” he said, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along the burnt skin. He didn’t press for an explanation (I think he preferred watching me squirm), which is good, because I was so shocked I think I might've told all if he'd asked. What Marcone and I had done had nothing to do with love ...right? I couldn't figure out a way to ask without giving myself away completely. Maybe Bob would have some answers. I indicated that I had important work to be getting to, and he hied his smug self away without any further complications. He did, however, leer meaningfully at me in parting and demand a “full report” on Molly. Vampires, man-- cliquey, pretty, gossipmongers that they are-- teenage girls got nothing on them.


	3. In which Molly learns a valuable lesson about ...friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still no actual sex, guys, sorry-- unless you count John as Sex Incarnate, which I kinda do...

Molly was no idiot. She knew Harry was just trying to get rid of her so he could stay behind and talk with Thomas, probably about his brand new mantoy. Joke was on him, though, because she knew a spot where she could pick up licorice twigs and perilla for the lab, a red-bean-and-taro bubble tea for herself, and --like magic!-- end up just a few blocks from Marcone’s downtown office.

  
Later, she reflected that if she'd known how easy it was to get an audience with Chicago’s biggest mob boss, she probably would've done it a long time ago. She barely had time to admire the wards, the receptionist’s haircut, and indulge in a brief bout of rationalization (namely, that while this might not’ve been the smartest thing she'd ever done, it also wasn't the dumbest-- and if there was anything she'd learned from working with Harry, it was that sometimes that's as good as it gets), before it was all “Mr. Marcone will see you now,” and she was issued a little security badge and sent on her way.  
Really it was probably just as well she hadn't known.

The mob boss in question regarded her over an extravagant stretch of mahogany, upon which he had spread a large linen napkin. He looked scrumptious and casual in rolled shirtsleeves and a gunmetal grey vest --jacket draped on the chair behind him-- and he was peeling an orange with the smooth efficiency of a woodworker turning a bowl. He called her Ms. Carpenter and said he hoped she didn't mind, but he so rarely got a chance to eat between meetings. She watched his hands and minded not being an orange.

  
“You're looking very well,” he said, though she hadn't noticed him looking. “Can I offer you anything?” _you sure can_ , she thought, but she rattled her bubble tea at him and said, “I'm good, thanks.”

  
“Indeed,” he said. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?” She blushed. Had she imagined it, or had he paused meaningfully before the word ‘pleasure’? He ate his orange unconcernedly, as though he had all the time in the world to wait while she lost her nerve and sweated and panicked and wondered, _oh, god, what would Harry do_?

  
The answer, of course, was unhelpful, because Mr. Marcone held himself like a well-fed tiger, and Molly --though brazen-- didn't have the necessary boneheadedness to tweak his tail.  
_go for what you want_ , she reminded herself, and sat up straighter.

“I want your advice,” she said, and faltered. “I guess.” Class act that he was, his face stayed perfectly polite, but she could feel his interest tilt towards her like a parabolic mirror. She had a moment of profound sympathy for ants caught under a lens. After a moment of deeply, _sizzlingly_ uncomfortable focus, he pulled a stringy bit of pith from an orange segment and mused, “You're not here for blackmail, are you?” She jerked.

  
“No-- _what_?” Something almost like a smile lit his eyes.

  
“How charming-- this may be the very first time I've seen the genuine form of that response.” His tone was light, but the warmth of his pleasure was real, and she swayed forward under its influence.

  
“Ahh,” she stuttered. He raised the fingertips of one hand in an elegant _don't bother_ gesture and, gratefully, she shushed.

  
“I should not have assumed. Forgive me.” _anything_ , she thought, but managed somehow not to say aloud. “Let me assure you that I desire nothing more than for us to be-- allies.” That pause again! She shivered despite herself-- he was totally doing it on purpose.

  
“Allies?” she asked.

  
“Oh, some friendly advice is the least I could do for one of Michael Carpenter’s children.” He met her eyes-- just a flick, not long enough to soulgaze, of course. “But for someone I personally hold in high esteem --the more so, by the way, with every meeting-- I am delighted to offer whatever help I may.”  
_well_ , she thought, _no pussing out now_.

  
“Ok,” she said. “Ok. I wanted to know how you did it.” He waited, didn't ask what she meant. Carefully separated an orange section and put it in his mouth. She blushed, but steeled herself. “Got Harry into bed, I mean.” His eyes flicked away sheepishly. _That_ was new.

  
“Yes, well,” he said. “I wish I could claim responsibility--” She gasped aloud.

  
“You mean _Harry_ \--” He did get a chuckle out of that, actually.

  
“Goodness, no, Ms. Carpenter--” she watched, fascinated, while he took a moment to fold away his amusement. She got the sense that he would take it out and enjoy it later in private. “No, the situation involved a third-party attack spell that went awry. Believe me, if I'd thought of it myself, I would've made use of it long ago.”

  
“Oh.” She sat back. He gave her a moment to contemplate her disappointment; took the opportunity to tidy away the detritus of his midmorning snack. Then he leaned back in his chair and gave her a look that was almost sympathetic.

  
“Ms. Gard had an interesting interpretation-- perhaps you'd like to hear?” Molly would indeed have dearly loved to know what Ms. Gard had said when she heard what had happened-- but she doubted she'd be getting the unedited version. “Her theory is that whoever cast that spell was operating under the misapprehension that at heart we wanted to destroy one another. Changing someone's heart is tricky, but merely exposing it? Fairly simple. And, incidentally, more of a legal grey area, if you catch my drift.” She did.

  
“You mean it's not black magic,” she said.

  
“Strictly speaking, no. So. Aside from the implications of who might put a hit on me, yet shies away from dabbling in the darkest of arts-- a question which I'm sure is far more interesting to me than it is to you-- what can we learn from this event?” He stuck out a meaty, well-manicured thumb. She chewed anxiously on the fat boba straw and tried to think pure thoughts. “One,” he counted, apparently oblivious to her distress, “you will never get Dresden to do anything that truly goes against his nature.” Molly rolled her eyes.

  
“Yeah-- I coulda told you that for free,” she muttered.

  
“Mmm,” he said diplomatically. “We also learn, however, that getting him to do something he _actually wants to do_ is only marginally less difficult.” She let out an explosive breath of frustration. “ _Agreed_ ,” he said, and they shared a moment of mutual empathy that sent a pleasurable frisson down the nape of her neck. _charisma_ , she warned herself, _that's all it is. like any good cult leader._ But knowing what it was didn't do much to shield her from the glow of his apparently genuine goodwill.  
A soft chime emitted from somewhere behind his desk, and he spread his fingers with an expression of regret. “Ms. Carpenter, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I'm afraid I have a meeting that cannot be put off.”

  
“Oh!” she said, flustered, and tried to stand and apologize at the same time. He shook his head.

  
“Not at all. I only wish I could give you more time. If you want to continue this conversation over dinner, I believe I'm free tomorrow night.” Molly froze. Did he mean a _date_?

  
“Um,” she said, “I'll think about it?” He smiled, then, and gave her the kind of look that by all rights ought to have come with David Attenborough’s breathless narration in the background.

  
“ _Do_.” he said. “And you have my number?” She didn't, so he gave her a card and showed her out, all, maddeningly, without so much as brushing against her arm.

He left her in the care of another secretary --this one male, but every bit as stylish as the first-- with instructions to arrange a ride home. “And if Ms. Carpenter would like to make an appointment at this time,” he said, dialing the charm factor up to a truly unnecessary twelve, “I want you to make _every_ effort to accommodate her schedule.” He shook her hand then --of course, when she was too flummoxed to enjoy it-- and thanked her _very_ much for coming. She blushed right down to the roots of her hair. Surely-- he couldn't possibly know. ... _could_ he? He met her eyes one last time, just long enough for it to feel dangerous; just long enough for her to get the message loud and clear, yes, thank you --his green eyes slitted like a cat enjoying a particularly _warm_ patch of sun-- that he damn well could, vanilla mortal or no. “I very much look forward to hearing from you again,” he added, and her voyeuristic little heart revved like a vintage Mustang waiting at a traffic light.

  
“Ok,“ she said, feeling terrifyingly out of her depth, but, at the same time, at least 150% too turned on to care, “thanks.”

“How's 8 at Arami?” asked the secretary after he'd left. Molly blinked at him. He was very professional, but she could feel the curiosity/envy/awe just sheeting off of him.

“Ok,” she said, and got out of there as fast as she could.


	4. In which Molly, despite justifiable provocation, does not hex anyone's radio

Molly had the car drop her a few blocks from Harry's house, but Thomas had spent enough time with young girls out past their curfew to know _that_ trick forwards and back. He fell into step with her just as she rounded the corner onto Harry's street. She valiantly tried not to look like someone whose cover had just been blown, but he had his sights set on bigger game, anyhow.

“Alright, magelet, tell me what you know,” he said in greeting.

"Nothing. What? I mean-- nothing." She slurped at her bubble tea unconvincingly. He swung around to face her, tilted his head chidingly.

“Harry's new squeeze. I _know_ you know. And I'll make it worth your while if you tell me who it is.” Molly thought fast-- difficult, given that he was actually, literally batting his eyes at her.

Either he hadn't seen her get out of the Marconemobile, or else he didn't realize its significance. In any case, Harry clearly hadn't told him yet-- _so what did they talk about, then_?

”Uh-” she said, stalling for time. Thomas nodded as though this were an acceptable first volley.

“Fair enough.” He ducked close, all conspiratorial, “I'll tell you this, then: the first rule of battle is that if you can destroy your opponent’s strongest point of defense right off the bat, they'll never rally.” Molly thwortled the purple dregs of her drink and tried to tease a glimmer of sense out of that. No luck.

“So…”

“So, _think_ , Molly. What's Harry's biggest hangup? I know it's hard to pick just one --he's hangups all the way down-- but think. What's the biggest?” She scowled at him.

“I don't know, Thomas-- when people dogear his books?” He cut his eyes at her.

“ _No_ , Molly-- I mean, yes-- yes, he is a dick about that-- but no, I'm talking about your father.”

“My _dad_?” He gave her a pitying kind of look, but she waved it off. Eldest of 7, she could do oh-it-must-hurt-to-be-so-slow with the best of them. “Seriously, Thomas-- what's he got to do with anything?” He examined his nails with lofty unconcern-- and set the hook.

“Tell me who's been leaving their spoor all over Harry and I'll be more than happy to tell you.”

“Ew, Thomas! I'm sure he showered!”

“Ah, so you _do_ know. Lovely.” His voice lowered to a whisper that was probably on the books as a misdemeanor in at least 5 states. “And spoor, Molly-- it means _psychically_ , surely you know that.”

“Oh.” That was almost worse. She wavered. If he hadn't told Thomas, probably there was a reason… Thomas, however, flicked his fingers dismissively, as though anticipating her reluctance.

“You know him. Getting Harry to talk about his feelings is like tying someone up with shoelaces-- it's not that it can't be done, but it’s just so _difficult_ if the other person isn't cooperating.”

Well. No arguing with that.

He pouted elegantly. “I promise: if you tell me, I won't let him know. _Please_ , Molly.” His eyes held her, so straightforward and sincere. And _pretty_. And she really wanted to know what he'd meant about her father.

  
And finally, when it came down to it, she knew that in his own terrible way he was as crazy about his brother as she was. The worst Harry had to fear from him was some good-natured joshing, which certainly wasn't going to do him any harm, and might even do him some good. He had, after all, grown up an only child-- and everyone knows they never quite turn out as well-adjusted as people with siblings.

So she told him. She hadn't known exactly what response to expect, but nothing could have prepared her for the way his whole body went completely _radiant_ with glee. “I have to go,” he said, buzzing with some incandescent excitement that was giving her a little contact high, just being near him.

“Wait! What about my dad?” He did a neat little about-face.

“Oh, that?” he said, like he'd forgotten all about it. “Haven't you figured it out yet?” She must've looked more desperate than she intended, because he relented pretty quick.

“Oh, Mollykins, here's the thing. It doesn't matter how scrumptious you are-- it will _never_ matter how scrumptious you are, because my little brother, bless his poor, misguided heart, would rather put his own eyes out with his thumbs than risk Mr. Goodguy-Daddyfigure Michael Carpenter’s poor opinion of him.” Molly’s heart sank.

“So you're saying it's hopeless.” _and I sold out to Mr. Marcone for nothing, too,_ she thought bitterly. His eyes flashed and his body language went from cool and relaxed to cold and unmoving.

“Check yourself, Molly, or I'm out.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered. He did indeed look ready to flee. She closed her eyes and took a few long breaths. “Better?” He nodded, but didn't come close again.

“Man, when you get self-destructive you don't mess around," he said, fanning himself for effect. "Maybe you should get that looked at or something--" She snorted.

" _Dick_. You were saying?" He winked at her.

" _As_ I was saying: if you can find a way to get your dad on your side, that'll cut Harry's high horse right out from under him. He’ll be as helpless as a baby seal, all big eyes and soft fur…”

The image had a certain appeal. Molly shook herself.

“I, uh… I don't think I have it in me to be the polar bear in that scenario.” Thomas dragged his eyes lazily down her body.

“You sell yourself short,” he said.

“ _Uggh_ \--” said Molly, fighting hard against the urge to jump him. _psychic assault,_ she told herself firmly, and threw up the smooth, curved walls that would let it slide harmlessly past. Thomas cocked his head.

“Good, Molly. You're getting better at that.” She went warm with pleasure from the praise-- but kept the walls steady. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, _very_ good. Now. I really must be going. Think on what I said. I look forward to hearing how things go.” His smile made it abundantly clear that he wouldn't be offended by explicit detail. And possibly pictures. _Sheesh_. But that was kinda the nice thing about Thomas-- he could make even your most depraved fantasies feel so wholesome by comparison.

“Hey, wait a minute,” she said, as one last important detail occurred to her through the haze of endorphins. “How am I supposed to get my dad to agree?” Thomas favored her with a wicked smile.

“Sorry, kiddo-- miracles cost extra. You're on your own there.” He danced away effortlessly when she tried to smack him. “Good luck!”

And he swung himself into his SUV and disappeared.

Molly reflected that really, it was a wonder Harry didn't set things on fire _more_ often than he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, Molly & Thomas also occasionally go shopping together. I'm _just saying._


	5. In which Thomas is exceedingly well-behaved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for very brief mention of probably non-con, incestuous Thomas/Lara.
> 
> Also, there's some Michael/Thomas interactions that could definitely be construed as one-sided flirting, if you squint hard enough.

The Herschel’s Deli’s Demons were having a rough day. MacDonald was sitting on the bench, icing a bruise-- she'd taken a bad pitch to the knee. More worrying, something was up with Keisha Davis and Lauren Tsai. They’d been Not Talking to each other since practice started, and usually they were as thick as thieves.

When Michael Carpenter spotted the vampire on the far side of the outfield, he shook his head ruefully. _When it rains_ … He wasn't a cursing kind of guy, but he saw the way all the moms were putting their heads up like meerkats, and he was --almost-- tempted to say something colorful.  
But-- it gave him an excuse to end practice a little early.  
He chirped the whistle to get the team’s attention.

"Alright ladies, who's ready for some laps?” Instead of the usual chorus of groans, a ragged cheer went up. Apparently, he wasn't the only one ready for the day to be over.

Michael picked his way over to where the vampire was waiting patiently, and, he noticed, just far enough from the bleachers that he might not cause an outright riot. “Thomas,” he said, “everything alright?” Thomas feigned a wounded look.

“Do I need a reason to come see you now?” Michael smiled.

“Well, if you just want someone to talk to, that's fine.” He'd meant it to be friendly, but Raith wrinkled his nose.

“There is some business to discuss.” He let his eyes drift over towards the bleachers, where the parents were just barely containing their curiosity enough to stay put. “If you're not too busy.”

“Is it Harry?” Thomas-- hesitated.

“Not... directly.” A chill went down Michael’s back. _God give me strength,_ he thought.

“My daughter?”

Thomas’s voice was calm, but his eyes were tracking the girls on their increasingly-stragglier circuits of the field.

“I worry that Harry's not doing all he could to protect her from White Court influence.”

*****

Michael managed to wrangle his Demons and their parents into their respective minivans, and arranged for his daughter Alicia to get a ride home with the Greenbaums. Once safely alone, he --and Thomas, bemused but uncomplaining-- packed up bats, balls, and bases under a pinkening sky.

“It's like lifting weights,” Thomas was explaining. “I lean on her a little, let her rest-- build her up slow. She's a natural.” Michael shook his head.

“And you swear it doesn't… hurt her.”

Thomas was firm.

“I’m not feeding on her, Michael. I wouldn't do that.”

Michael beat the dirt off a plate before stowing it. First base was always the worst, but even on an off day, the girls were pretty good at bat, so there were plenty of footprints on second, and even third. Which meant second base was letting them through. _Catching drills tomorrow_.

Thomas was watching him, expecting some kind of response. Michael gave him his best _please explain this C in History_ face.

“I would never _intentionally_ harm her,” Thomas conceded. Michael nodded acknowledgment. He trusted Raith that much, at least.

“But you're worried that might not be enough to protect her. Even with Harry's training and your--” both Thomas’ hands were occupied holding open the mouth of a mesh bag half-full of aluminum bats, but he managed a dismissive little brushing-away gesture.

“In a year, two maybe, with some more experience under her belt, she'll stand a chance against someone whose intentions aren't so altruistic. She’s powerful and she's passionate, and--” he chose his words carefully, “very complex.” Michael tamped down a flare of pride. It wasn't that he loved Molly any more than his other children-- but she'd been the first, and he could still remember the warm, tiny weight of her held against his chest, mouthing his shirt collar in her sleep. “She is that,” he said, aiming for weary ruefulness, but Thomas wasn't much fooled.

“Yes, well, unfortunately, right now that just means she’s especially appetizing. She's protected by her anonymity more than anything else, but when word gets out, she's going to have trouble. She won't be Harry's apprentice forever --in fact, my money’s on her being bigger news than he is someday-- and if you think the fucking White Council will have her back--” he broke off with a huff. Michael winced, but it was a fair point. He looked around the darkening park. “I think we got everything. Here--” he reached out, but Thomas _tsked_ and slung the heavily-laden equipment bags over his shoulder with an effortless grace that Michael, even in his youth, could never have managed.   
“Your stoicism is giving me a rash from here.” He plucked the catcher’s gear away from Michael with his free hand, leaving him with nothing to carry. Michael raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. He was tired and longing for home, a hot bath, and some tiger balm-- and nowhere near too proud to admit it.

“I am a little stiff today.” Thomas gave him a richly provocative look.

“You’re always a bit stiff,” he said, “but then, I love a good straight man.” Michael snorted at that, and Thomas preened, pleased with himself. They ambled slowly across the field back towards the parking lot. The sky had deepened to a rich salmon red, against which small, dark birds --or possibly bats? Michael didn't know for sure-- were swooping to catch insects.

“I know you've talked to Harry about your injury...” Thomas said, almost conversationally. Michael grimaced.

“I did, but…” Thomas shook his head sympathetically.

“I do think he comes from the thick-skulled side of the family.” Michael slowed almost to a stop to consider this. Thomas looked back. “Oh, hush, you.” Michael grinned. He noticed that when Thomas stopped and waited for him to get moving again, there was none of the exaggerated poise that informed his usual body of work. The gesture was one of such everyday humanness that for a brief, heartrending moment, he saw him as the man he might have been.

“I know he blames himself,” said Michael. “But I wish he wouldn't. There is joy in doing one's duty, but--” he shrugged, oddly embarrassed.

“It's not the same as family,” said Thomas, his eyes up on the swooping winged critters, the very picture of studied indifference. Michael looked at him with appreciation.

“It's not,” he agreed. “It’s a blessing to have more time for my children-- every day I'm grateful. I wonder, sometimes, if I'd been around more when Molly was growing up---” he shook his head like trying to shake loose the thought. “Ah, you know. I just wonder.” Thomas eyed him askance.

“You think she might have confided in you? You're certainly more approachable than your wife --no offense. You'll notice I'm here talking with you and not her.” Michael was not the least bit offended-- nor did he feel the need to disclose that, in point of fact, Charity had, in fact, mellowed with age. “Molly and I were always close, so…” Thomas shook his head. “I don't doubt that you were, but here's the thing: I've known a teenage girl or two--” Michael considered the many responses a person could make at this point, and diplomatically said none of them. “--And that's not even counting the sisters. --Did you have any sisters?” Michael hadn't. Thomas sighed with an only slightly exaggerated wistfulness. “What a charmed life. Anyway, here's the part where I give you the benefit of my wisdom: the only thing wilier than a young girl hiding something from her mother? Is a young girl hiding something from her father. Don't look like that-- you know I'm right. If you _had_ been around more and she'd had a shameful secret to keep, even odds are she would've locked it up tighter than the KGB. And nobody would've known anything until it was _much_ too late.”

Michael felt his throat tighten.

“That’s a very kind thing to say,” he said gruffly. Thomas smirked.

“Yes, the Raiths are known for their kindness,” he said.

“I won't tell anyone,” Michael promised.

" _Better_ not," said Thomas, tossing his head.

They fell silent then, until they reached the parking lot. Michael cleared his throat over the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.

“Why the sudden urgency? Molly still lives under my roof, under the same protections as the rest of my family--”

“Ah, yes ‘protections’. Remind me again how those protections work to prevent humans from making poor decisions of their own free will?”

Michael stopped. They were almost to his truck, forlornly sitting by itself in the yellow sodium lamp glow.

“What do you mean?” Thomas turned a pitying gaze upon him.

“What would happen if one of your children were made an offer by a Denarian? Or a Sidhe? What if one of your children was tempted to break a law-- even just a standard-issue human law, much less a Council law? Could your angels stop them?” “Not directly,” said Michael, “but--”

“They also could not interfere with any of your household from consenting to marriage, intercourse, or even kissing- not without being in clear breach of their agreement.”

“That's different,” said Michael. “How could a person consent to being enthralled?” Even as he asked it, Michael’s throat went dry.

“I'm _so_ glad you asked,” purred Thomas. “Just let me put these things down-- do you mind?” He inclined his head graciously at the truck. Michael hurried to lower the tailgate, and together they wrestled the bulky equipment bags into the back. He felt sure that Thomas could've easily done it on his own, but he enjoyed the camaraderie of sharing the labor. Another kindness. He had forgotten how it felt to work close beside someone else. How could he have forgotten? He'd fought so many battles side by side --and sometimes back to back-- with men he'd trusted as though they were extensions of his own body. Shiro, Sanya-- sometimes Harry.  
He had grown too used to making his slow way alone. This feeling, this flash of remembering, left him profoundly moved. His leg didn't so much as twinge when they hoisted the heaviest bag together.

It was over too soon, and when they were finished, Michael slung an arm round Thomas's shoulder.

“Good work,” he said, and was about to offer to take him for a beer when Thomas turned and caught him up in a full-on hug. Michael was startled --a little startled, perhaps not as much as he should've been-- but by no means dismayed by this uncharacteristically affectionate gesture on Thomas's part. He privately thought Thomas could use more friends in his life, if only he would open up…  
It felt good. It felt, in fact, wonderful. Michael folded him closer and tucked his chin over him tenderly. It felt-- and then Thomas emitted a small grunt of pain and pulled back --way back-- rubbing his ear where Michael’s chin had been.

“Empty night, that _hurts_ ,” he said. Michael caught his balance against the truck, confused. He’d seen the man shake off some horrifying injuries-- surely he wasn’t sensitive to a little stubble?

Thomas showed him the fresh little blister on his ear and explained.

“ _This_ is what protects you. I can't feed on you-- at all. Nothing to do with angels. Just plain, earthly--” he gave a wry look, “-- _consummated_ love. But in another minute or two, if that hadn't been the case--” He closed the tailgate with a little more emphasis than was absolutely necessary, and went a little ways away to pick up a few empty Gatorade bottles that had escaped from the trash basket by the bleachers, giving Michael a few minutes to get his thoughts in order. It didn't take long. He was not a man accustomed to lying to himself. Slowly, the warm glow faded and the clamorous multitude of his many tired, aching muscles rose up within him once more. He had never felt so old, so bereft.

He went around and opened the cab of the truck. He needed to sit down.

A minute later, Thomas opened the passenger side door.

“Do you mind?” Michael, though still shaken, indicated that he did not, and Thomas slid in, closing the door behind him.

“Where’s your car?” asked Michael finally. Thomas waved a vague hand.

“I parked it a few blocks away-- I do try to be subtle from time to time.” Michael shot him a look.

“ _Very_ subtle. It’s not always like that, I know. I’ve met your sister.” He wasn't talking about the car.

“Lara is very good at what she does, but she lacks a certain delicacy.” He shrugged. “She uses it to her advantage. With her, one is at the mercy of an unstoppable force, and one _knows_ it. It’s part of the appeal.” There was a carefully neutral tone to his voice, and Michael nodded slowly. He was not shocked by the implication of incest. He'd seen many, many things over the years, and besides, he knew more than most people about the White Court.

“And you?” Thomas looked away, out his window. The sky had darkened to a rich teal blue.

“Everybody needs something. You just listen for what it is.”

“Empathy,” said Michael, and then, when Thomas did not answer, he mused, “I wonder if that’s what makes you different.” Thomas gave a very soft snort, and didn't look at him.

“I’m not different.” Michael felt a brief, overpowering ache in his chest, and fought the urge to put out his hand to Thomas’s shoulder, no longer sure of his own motives. He took a deep, steadying breath, and prayed for clarity, and calm.

“Different enough,” he said finally, and started the truck.

****

Michael gave the vampire a ride to where he’d parked.

“So tell me what you're thinking, already,” he said. “I know I'm not going to like it.”  
Thomas told him. It was simple. It didn’t take long. And Michael did not, in fact, like it. Thomas got out, and Michael watched him neatly extract the SUV from where it was wedged between a prim, newish Jetta and a scruffy-looking Neon, two tiny piglets nudging up against a vast white sow.

He rested his head against the wheel. It had been a very, very long day. He went home to his wife.

 


	6. A small study sample --but then, it's hard to get funding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into way more of a slow-burn than I'd planned. Sigh.

I got Thomas safely out the door and made myself a sandwich. A liquid lunch is all very well for bacchanalian rituals and 50’s-era business deals, but would be a decided handicap for mixing the potions we had planned for the day.

Molly came in just as I'd stuck my face in an old bag of sliced turkey to see if it was still good. I jumped as if I'd been caught sniffing panties and she gave me a (deservedly) weird look.

“Got the stuff,” she said, dumping her backpack on the table. “But if you're eating now, I'll wait to get started-- maybe have a cup of tea.” I nodded as normally as I knew how, and then stood there like a wooden post while she filled the kettle & put it on to boil. She smelled good-- much better than the turkey.

I looked down. Right. I gave it another sniff. It was probably fine.

“You, uh, want a sandwich?” She stopped rummaging through the tea drawer-- which, let me just say, I didn't even _have_ a tea drawer ‘til she started hanging out at my place all the time-- and leaned over to inspect the turkey herself.

“Erm,” she said dubiously, “I think I'm good, thanks.” I scowled at the lunchmeat. Ended up putting it in Mister’s bowl -- _he_ didn't complain, I noticed-- and went for tuna instead.

“Ugh,” she said, as I mixed pickle relish in. “I really don't know how you can do that.” The kettle started shrieking and then immediately went mute.

“Well, I don't know how you do _that_ ,” I said, jerking my chin at the eerily silent kettle. I could still see the steam shooting out. “So I guess we're even.”

It was weird, bantering as if everything was fine. It gave me a pang to realize how much I had missed our comfortable daily camaraderie.

_This is why it's best not to get involved_ , I told myself.

Molly was busy rummaging for a potholder, for all appearances paying no attention to the kettle. She was always doing stuff like that --picking a single noise to mess with-- like it was nothing.

“You just make the opposite of the noise and it cancels it out. It's fine for everyday sounds, but something unpredictable, like, um-- like someone talking would be hard.” I stared at her. I can go on about energy transfer with the best of them --not bad, considering I never graduated high school-- but this was something else.

“The opposite?” I tried to imagine what that would even sound like. It hurt my head.

She gave up on the potholder & used the hem of her hoodie to grab the kettle handle-- it was cheap and old and would take the first layer of skin off your palm if your weren't careful. I tried not to watch how the sweatshirt pulled the hem of her t-shirt up a few inches with it, exposing a velvety line of skin above her jeans.

“You know,” she said, after she’d finished pouring, “sound waves?” She swam her hands together like dolphins.

I shook my head.

“ _Sound_ waves? You know I don't allow any of that quantum physics crazytalk in my house. Where'd you get that from, Glugger? Giggle? What's it called?”

She stopped mid-dolphin and gave me that flat stare that all females perfect by the age of 12.

“Ok, Gramps, we’re through here-- you're just jealous I know how to type without looking. Got any milk that's safe to drink?”

I gave this the answer it deserved, which was a wounded silence, and stuck the relish back in the icebox while I had it open. I found a carton of half & half--I managed to sneak a sniff-check before I passed it to her-- and discovered an unopened brick of American cheese hiding behind it, which I grabbed with a triumphant shout. Molly saw what I was holding, shuddered, and turned away. I clucked my tongue.

“It's _good_ with pickle and cheese. My dad used to make it that way for me when I was little.” She looked up sharply, and then looked away just as quick, as if maybe I wouldn't notice her sudden interest.

“Yeah? I didn't know you lived with him-- you know...” I busied myself with peeling the fiddly little plastic wrappers off the cheese.

“Yeah, til I was six, anyway.” I couldn't find any bread, but there were some whole wheat pitas in the bread box. I held them up and looked accusingly at Molly. She just blinked at me, all blue-eyed innocence. I harrumphed and began piling tuna salad into one of them-- with extra cheese, just to skeeve her out even more.

I thought about how my dad’s fingers had been even longer than mine, almost alien-looking. Magician’s fingers, he’d called them. He tried teaching me coin tricks, but, like most kindergarteners, my fine motor skills weren't anything to write home about, so mostly I just watched.

“His real favorite was reubens,” I told Molly, “which I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.” I shook my head. “That man sure did love his sauerkraut.”

I took a bite of my sandwich, leaning forward a little so the inevitable gloppiness wouldn't end up all down the front of my shirt. Mister, having made short work of the turkey, twined around my feet hopefully. I gave him the mixing bowl to lick before he could break my ankles. “I didn't even like the tuna salad at first-- it was just the lesser evil.”

“You sure seem like you like it now,” she said, watching with horrified fascination as I slurped a drip off my palm. “Jeez, Harry, you _have_ plates.” She handed me a clean one from the cupboard.

“Plate-shmate,” I said, but took it. She stirred her tea thoughtfully while I took another bite. “And what about the reubens?”

“Molly, please,” I said. “I'm not a barbarian.”

“Well,” she said, “it's good to know you do occasionally change your mind.” I slowly stopped chewing. She was looking steadfastly down into her mug. I finished the bite as quietly as I could --the mandibular equivalent of tiptoeing past a lion’s den-- and said, “Um. Maybe we should talk?”

We sat at the table, and things rapidly went downhill from there.

  
*************

I didn't know where to begin.

“Ok,” I said finally. She nodded, sat up straighter, looked me in the eye.

“Ok. I've seen the way you look at me, Harry.” My throat went dry.

“If this is about what happened--” I began, but she shook her head.

“Before that. I mean, definitely more so since then-- but before then.”

“How do I, uh--” I was trying to think of how not to ask the obvious question, and was almost grateful when she cut me off.

“Like you're thinking the same thing I'm thinking. Like you're thinking ‘why not?’ Why not, huh?” Her eyes had me pinned. I squirmed, wishing I were _any_ where else. “I know you don't like to think about it, but we do dangerous shit, Harry. Why not have something… something _good_?”

Contrary to what others may claim about me, I do have the ability to figure out the subtext on occasion, and Molly’s was coming through loud and clear. _Before something eats us-- or worse._ It was always the _or worse_ that kept me up at night.

“Molly, I hear what you're saying, but--”

“But what?” she pressed. “It's not that you don't want me. I don't have to go poking around inside your head to know that. You're broadcasting plenty loud enough on your own.” I suppressed a shudder. I knew she was just making a point, but Molly probably could get in my head uninvited without much trouble, and it did not bear thinking about-- my own privacy aside, it could mean a quick and easy death sentence for her.

“I said no and I meant _no_.” She sat back like she'd been slapped. I grimaced. It had come out a bit more forcefully than I'd intended. She wasn't giving up easy, though.

“At least tell me why,” she said, hands tight on her tea mug. “That's what I want to know.”

I spread my hands helplessly.

“It's not enough just to want something. You have to want it for the right reasons.”

“Huh.” She looked down. “So are you saying you think my reasons are wrong, or yours?”

My internal _It's a trap_!-o-meter started squawking, so I hedged.

“I think it's complicated,” I began, “no matter whose side you look at it from.”

Wrong answer. She shook her head and snorted with real disgust.

“So that's the lesson you want me to take from this? Don't get involved because it might be complicated?” She pushed her chair away from the table before I could answer. “You deserve better than that, Harry. _I_ deserve better than that.” What was I gonna say to that? Deserving wasn't the point. She made an inarticulate noise of frustration and stalked out of the kitchen. I heard the hatch to the lab slam open a moment later. She was probably going to go grind ebony-- it took serious elbow grease, and was best done when you had some anger to work through.

I stayed at the table staring at my half-eaten sandwich, pondering her parting shot. She'd said I deserved better. _Do I?_ I thought bitterly. All the women I'd been with had ended up dead, undead, or seriously scrambled.

I shook my head. _Definitely better not to get involved._


	7. In which actual property damage is kept to minimum

“Can I smash it?” I asked. Waldo Butters --medical examiner by day, dungeon master by night, polka aficionado 24/7-- pushed his glasses up on his nose and regarded me dubiously.

“Well, it's a mountain. It's solid rock.” I grunted.

“‘Kay. Any bad guys to smash?”

“Nope-- just the mountain. Anyone else?”

“Can I try climbing it?” That was Andi --excuse me, Gwendolina LaGreu-- our thief. Waldo passed her the dice.

“8 or above-- it's pretty sheer.” She grinned wickedly.

“I'm pretty agile.” She held the dice close to her face and whispered to them encouragingly while she shook them-- the shaking went on a bit longer than was really necessary, but considering how the rest of her jiggled when she did it, nobody complained. “Bam!” she said, the dice having responded positively to her ministrations. “I'll send a rope down for you monoglots!”

About 3 people tried to be the first to tell her that that word didn't mean what she thought it meant. _Ah, nerds_. I sipped my Coke contentedly and settled back in my chair.

“What're you so happy about?” asked Will, coming in from the kitchen. “You find an orc or something?” He bore two beautifully sizzling casserole dishes of nachos, one in each of his ovenmitted hands. I put a guilty hand up to my face before I could stop myself.

“What, nachos aren't a good enough reason?” I asked, scooching maps out of the way to make room. “You can just put those right here, by the way-- I'll take care of them.”

Butters broke off in the middle of describing the nest Andi --Gwendolina-- had found.

“Yeah, but you've been grinning all night.”

I glared, but I must've I really been operating at a lower level of surliness than usual, because he didn't even flinch. “What? It's nice. You haven't even slain any peasants tonight.”

“That only happened the once,” I protested. Georgia, next to me, cleared her throat. I rolled my eyes. “Ok, twice, but that one guy didn't have any info we needed, so it wasn't really a problem.”

“Technically--” said Georgia.

“ _Anyway_ ,” said Butters, “the baby griffins-- where was I-- pinfeathers…”

But Andi wasn't listening. She was staring at me with her head cocked.  
I felt a blush creeping up from my neckline. Georgia didn't say a word, but cleared her throat again, and when I turned to look, I caught her raising her eyebrows loudly at Andi.

“Oh!” said Andi.

“What?” said Butters. I think he was getting annoyed that nobody was paying attention to the storyline.

“We think maybe Harry got _laid_ ,” she stage-whispered across at him.

“Hey!” I said, blushing harder, “Sitting right here!”

“ _No way,_ ” said Butters, ignoring me-- and showing a disheartening lack of concern for my ego. “Anyway, he would've told me!”

“I would not!” I said. He looked hurt. “No-- look-- I just. It's kind-of a new thing-- it's not even a thing--”

Will, who understands what's really important in life, said, “Hey-- if you're happy, we're happy,” and handed me stack of plates and a pair of tongs so I could start dismantling the nachopolis in front of me. Then, once I was good and distracted, he got me with the sucker punch.

“So, what's her name?”

I flinched.

“I… I can't tell you.” A minor flurry of bedlam broke out.

“Oh my god, is she married? Is it a secret?”

“Is she fae?” asked Georgia, eyes narrowing.

“No!” I said, horrified.

“Is it Molly?” asked Butters suddenly, his voice suspiciously neutral. I rounded on him.

“Why would you think that?” He put his hands up.

“I’m just saying, I know you guys are pretty close--”

“Arg, no, it's not Molly.” There was a simultaneous punctured-tire sound from at least three people in the room, and Andi even went so far as to shake her head in disappointment. I think my voice rose a full octave in aggravation and disbelief.

“What is it _with_ you people, everyone thinking I should get with her? She's my apprentice. She's--” I had just enough sense to stop short of saying she was a kid-- given the median age of my audience, it would not have won me any points.

“Whoa,” said Will, “no-one’s saying you have to do anything.”

“Some girls _like_ older guys,” said Andi sulkily. Butters opened his mouth, closed it, and then then turned back to me.

“Forget I asked about Molly-- who is she?” I shook my head.

“I really can't tell you.” I raised my voice over the immediate chorus of protests, “No, really! But--” I hesitated, but some part of me just wanted to see the look on their faces when I said it. “It's not a she.”

Andi was the first to recover.

“ _Harry_!” she said, like she was so proud she might burst. Georgia, who under normal circumstances is about as prone to hilarity as the Chicago Public Parking Authority, gave herself the hiccups  & actually had to leave the room. Serves her right. Will put up his hands and said, “I stand by my previous statement-- if you’re happy, I’m happy.” Butters, however, just stared at me in bewilderment.

“But Harry, you're so…”

“The _epitome_ of heteronormativity?” called Georgia from the kitchen.

Andi chided everyone for not being more supportive.

“No, it's ok,” I said, feeling that unfamiliar grin stretching across my face again. “It's kinda nice to know I can still surprise you guys sometimes.”

“And you really can't tell us who it is?” asked Andi piteously. “Not even a hint?”

I made a face.

“You honestly wouldn't believe me even if I told you.”

“Huh.” Butters kept looking at me with a thoughtful expression on his face.  
And I just couldn’t seem to make that stupid grin go away. But he was right. It was nice.

“Ok, ok,” I said. I'd had more than my fill of being the center of attention. “So these baby griffins, do we smash them, or what?”


End file.
